It isn’t enough that I cry through the day-
now I must weep in my sleep?
My first blink of wakefulness finds my eyes moist,
my pillow damp-
but the dream is gone.
Does the mourning never end?
Where do these salty waterfalls spring from?
It must be a bottomless well of sadness
I draw from.
The sheer volume of liquid grief
seems more than this little body could hold.
Do I suck moisture from
the endless hurts of the world?
From this conga-line of disappointments?
This cornucopia of pain is always replenished.
The well never empties but is constantly refilled.
No amount of prestidigitation
can evaporate this soggy sponge.
No magician’s cleaver misdirection
can take my mind off
this slow, steady drowning.
Where is the full-body wetsuit I need
to shield myself from
this tsunami of sorrow?
(8- 22- 12)
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